And me, sitting with a rifle across my lap, thinking about a female I’ve never met in real life and the phone call six days ago that changed everything.
“She’s being held in some kind of underground structure,” Kelt continues through the headset. “Pit or cellar, northwest corner of the compound. We breach, extract and get out.”
“What’s the timeline on the kill order?” Cole asks, his voice crackling through comms.
“Intercepted communication says tomorrow.” Kelt’s jaw tightens. “We go tonight or she doesn’t see morning.”
My hands grip the rifle harder. Twelve days she’s been down there, in a hole in the ground while I made calls, assembled a team, planned every detail of this extraction. Twelve days while the man who was supposed to love her declined involvement.
I force my hands to relax. Focus.
“Insertion point is two clicks from the compound,” Kelt says. “We move through the jungle using standard formation. Orcs take point—night vision and hearing give us the advantage. Cole, Martinez, you’re on flanks.”
“Copy that,” Martinez says.
“Jonus.” Kelt’s voice cuts through. “You sure about going in? You could run comms from the bird.”
“I’m going in.”
Brief pause on the comms. Kelt doesn’t push it. The others know better than to comment.
I’m the coordinator, the media handler, the Irontree who stays back and manages the fallout. When Garlen went feral over Ellie, I handled the press. When Keric brought Anna to the commune with mercenaries on her tail, I coordinated theevidence release. I solve problems with words and strategy, not weapons. But six days ago, a woman from the State Department called to tell me that Sloane Adams was missing in Colombia, presumed taken by cartel operatives. And she’d listed me as her emergency contact.
Not her fiancé, her editor, mother or best friend.
Me.
An orc she’d never met in person.
I still remember exactly where I was when the phone rang. My room in the Truckee house, going over media requests for Garlen and Ellie’s upcoming interview. Unknown number, DC area code. “Mr. Irontree? This is the State Department. We understand you’ve been in contact with Sloane Adams, an investigative journalist with the New York Times.”
“Yes.” My voice was steady even though something cold had settled in my chest. “What’s happened?”
“Ms. Adams traveled to Colombia twelve days ago. Six days ago, she missed a scheduled check-in. We believe she was taken by individuals connected to the Reyes cartel.”
Taken.
“You’re listed as her emergency contact,” the woman continued.
She listed me. Not her fiancé of however many months. Not anyone from her work. Me. A green orc she’d only ever seen through a screen. “What about her fiancé?” I asked. “Ryan Krychek?”
“Mr. Krychek has declined involvement. He indicated the relationship was over.”
A growl rumbles in my chest. Declined involvement? The woman he was supposed to marry was missing in cartel territory, and he declined involvement.
“Thank you for the information,” I’d said. Then I started making calls and ended up in contact with Sloane’s best friend,a librarian named Lucy Rodriguez. This small female has been invaluable in keeping information flowing between the Times and Sloane’s family, so I can concentrate on this extraction.
“Five minutes to insertion,” Martinez’s voice cuts through my headset, pulling me back to the present.
I check my rifle again. Sidearm. Knife. Everything in place.
Aldar’s voice comes through. “Drone’s in position. Thermal shows six signatures in the compound. Two on patrol, four stationary.”
“Any movement near the pit?” Kelt asks.
“Negative. Looks quiet.”
Quiet. She’s been down there for twelve days in a hole in the ground. What have they done to her?
